


A Witch's Revenge.

by NothingSnow



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Junkenstein's Revenge Except it's from the Witch's POV, M/M, Multi, Not a focus though, Not your average Junkenstein's Revenge AU, Other, Slow Burn, Some smut perhaps, more characters will be added with time, slow revenge, very graphic violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-20 23:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSnow/pseuds/NothingSnow
Summary: And Lo, She cursed the Lord-- for he was an ignorant fool.





	1. The Trial.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a compilation of several RPs between friends and myself. As such the POV and writing style may shift and seem off.

Chapter One. **_The Trial._**

* * *

 

The Witch didn’t remember much of her old life. Bits and pieces, fragments of things, wisps of remaining emotional attachment that clung to her like lichen on a stone. She remembered that she had been a doctor-- for the Lord of Adlersbrunn. A small fiefdom, hidden away in its own corner of the Black Forest. The people were superstitious, took care of their own and worst of all,  _ god-fearing.  _ She remembered a clinic-- smiling faces. Attachment. She worked hard. She remembered a war. Men dying on her tables-- the team working together to save many lives. Many perished, despite their efforts.

She remembered selling her soul to a demon. For the Spark of Life. People stopped dying in her care. Then, next, it was a blur. She remembered a raid, the Lord’s men storming through the building and dragging people from their work. Mentors and their pupils-- the youngest at seven years old, crying in terror as they were dragged off.

She remembered the trials. Strung high on timber poles and crying out as they were burned alive. She remembered the smell of singed flesh. A priest straining his voice over their screams to be heard saying their last rites. She remembered breaking free in a fit of anguish and rage-- in an instant, she sold her name for the strength to survive. She remembered the feeling of the energy of the dark arts she had delved into-- how  _ natural _ it felt to lift from the timber and pyre and gaze toward the Lord-- overlooking the execution. 

She remembered her curse. Her voice a booming volume, heard throughout the town and echoing into the sky, like a god cast down to deliver news of the end. 

“You destroy what you do not understand, dear Lord! You have made an enemy in me-- and it will be I that salts your fields, burns your village and takes your life. Repent to your God that you fear so dearly! May your sleep be cursed with night terrors until I return, dear Lord. I hope you sleep  _ well.”  _

An arrow sunk into her shoulder, then-- a brave soldier landing his mark as she threatened the Lord she once would have died for. The pain was great, but dulled-- as if whatever entity lent her her strength had blocked the sensation from her mind. 

Her finger pointed down to the brave soldier in question-- firing a bolt of lightning in his direction. A loud explosion, the street he stood on destroyed in an instant. And with the cloud of smoke and dust that she had kicked up-- the Witch was gone. The curse laid out. 

The Witch fled into the wilds, the demons and the fae gnawing at her mind in exchange for power. She had traded her name, her soul, her womb, memories and emotions, and even the sensation of pain. Over a period of weeks, she came to adjust to her new power-- her strength growing enough to attract the members of the fae that dwelled within the Black Forest to pay her mind-- The packs of werewolves learned to thrive-- quickly calling her a protector. A savior. Some even called her a druidic goddess sent to save them. It would only take a flick of a hand to summon prey to them-- and they would go to her when their bellies were empty and their hunts ran fruitless. 

The nymphs in the rivers and the trees simply ached to touch her as she passed-- desperate to run their fingers through her hair, as though they wished to be near her. Affectionate, wanting. 

The will-o-wisps danced with her as she moved, and the faeries blessed her footsteps with new growth. 

She no longer was mortal. She was part of the fae, now. By power of both demonic and fae magic, she was but a fragment of what she once was. 

And so the years slowly passed by. Days filled with meditation. Building her own numbers. A cult-like following of the fae wilderness around them. A mad doctor by the name of Jamison Junkenstein had found her abode in the trees, begging for her help-- the  _ Spark of Life _ was needed.

It was there that the Witch and the good Doctor struck up their alliance-- the witch, armed with her minions of the fae and the monsters that lurked in the darkness of the trees, and Junkenstein, armed with his newly created zomnics and his creations, plotted the demise of the Lord and his fiefdom. The witch gave her spark of life to each and every one of his zomnics, on one condition-- the witch herself would be the one to end the life of the Lord. 

“Oh, of  _ course, _ mistress.” He’d grinned darkly from under his goggles. Lines around his mouth framing his toothy laugh perfectly as he descended into a fit of disturbing, bright giggles. “I will never fail you.”   
“ _ Good. Now, let’s begin. _ ” 


	2. The Lord and His Men.

Chapter Two. The Lord and His Men.

* * *

It had been twenty years since the Witch had escaped. Twenty long years of sleepless nights, resentment, and paranoia. The Lord of Adlersbrunn was at his wit's end-- wondering if the Witch had simply moved on, or if she had died out in the wastes. Though the hunters he had sent into the forest had either come back scarred, or they didn't return at all. They'd spun tales of the Wolfmen and Wildmen growing in number, the fae growing increasingly violent, the druids and nymphs venturing into the market roads to drag their victims brazenly to their deaths. One hunter even swore he saw the Witch herself-- a shadow hovering in the trees far out of reach of him, grinning like some twisted Cheshire cat, before she clicked her tongue and disappeared.

It was now, on the twenty-first year, that he put a desperate call out to the neighboring nations-- word spreading far and wide of a most powerful Witch and an army of creatures and demons alike in need of extermination. And so hunters came from all round the world, each armed with their own regalia, flying their own flags. The townsfolk in Adlersbrunn were both in awe and terrified of the strangers-- the youth not knowing the truth, and the older generation sure that the Witch was still alive, despite what the Lord and his knights had told them. It was Oktoberfest-- the time when the people came together after a successful harvest, one last celebration before the long winter ahead.

The Lord, on the other hand, knew that this year was going to be the year that she returned-- He had exiled Junkenstein-- his automatons too close to witchcraft for comfort. He was desperate to defend his people and his throne; and this was his last, and only option, now. Today the Lord had unveiled a feast for his knights and their newfound hunter friends-- gathering them in the banquet hall of the castle. The room was filled with whole pigs, fruit, vegetables, ornate bread and treats and staff to ensure everyone's stein was full of drink. As much food as they could eat-- as their party would need their strength to defend the city in the days to come. 

The noise in the room silenced as the Lord stood from his chair to speak-- raising his stein of beer-- and all of a sudden, the staff seemingly frantically left the room, leaving their Lord with his guests. "Friends!" He called out, looking to the dozens of people gathered within the room. "Tonight, I ask you eat as much as you can. Danger lurks in the forest-- and you all will need your strength for the days to come." His voice was loud, booming, and staunch-- a leader by every right. "It should be now, that our foreign visitors ask any questions they have." At that, he took a mouthful of beer and then set the stein down on the table, looking expectantly about the room. "On the condition that you speak  _ none _ of this to my people."

\--

There was once a saying, Everything returns back to its beginning roots. Jack can finally say after many, may years of his condition that returning to the place where it all began left a sour taste in his mouth. At least if he was able to eat and it not tasting like ash and glass. It was easier to deal with now, hell, thanks to it he looked a lot younger than he should be. The white lines in his blond hair showed more youth than he felt. The scars on his face were faint and light pink instead of the harsh dark gray that it should be.  His crystal blue eyes showed more fire than it should.

He had fed before coming to this so called banquet. It was a necessary evil, and it was from someone who didn’t matter. Jack only fed from the souls of those who had darkness in their hearts. They tasted awful, bitter and vile but it filled his stomach like no other. He didn’t remember when it was the last time that he had anything sweet.  But that was the least of his worries, he had come here for a reason. This was the year that he was going to put everything to rest, this curse that ran through his veins and the conditions that were needed for him to be free. 

He wondered how far in the reaches of hell would he go, if he believed in that stuff that was.  He lost his best friend, someone who always watched his back to the Witch, and for his troubles and his failure to save him, he got cursed as well. When he first found out about it, it was heartbreaking. But then he had to live with the consequences.

So here was where Jack Morrison found himself, surrounded by knights and hunters alike, the Lord of the land was getting paranoid. For good reason, the Witch was to collect her dues soon enough. The banquet that was on the table looked good, it was too bad that he couldn’t have any, not unless he wanted to throw it back up for tasting like ash. He listened quietly, his large hat and gray cloak covering his body. He glanced at the Lord of the castle, as loud and annoying as always.

“So you’re still playing that game?” Jack asked, playing with the rim of his goblet, the red wine sat untouched.  “Tell me, why haven’t you told them about the witch, you think that by hiding it you are protecting them but are you? So what happens if the Witch gets close to the town, you think they wont find out that you have been lying to them all this time? But fine I’ll play your game as pathetic and fruitless this will bare. It might be fun.”

Jack took the goblet in his hand and took a tiny sip, the taste of decay graced his lips. He tossed the goblet behind him, not caring where the cup would land. He continued as if nothing had happened nor as if he hadn’t insulted the Lord. “So, how bad has it gotten, how much wild beast and wildmen have made their home in the forest? What exactly are these guys going to deal with and how much are you going to pay them for risking their lives for the mistakes this town have made to get the forest angry with it. You are going to have to be honest because its our hides that we’re risking not yours and a little clarity would be nice.”

He hadn’t even looked at the other hunters and knights, if they lived or died he didn’t care. He would just eat their souls anyway if they died. There was no reason to waste food like that. It was repulsive and he hated himself for it. But until both his targets were dead he had to make sure he was stronger than anyone out there. He had to survive.

\--

The Lord snapped his attention to the man who had spoke, his visual cues of disgust visible even behind his beard-- his lips pressing into a line, and then a corner curling upward in the indignation shown. With no staff in the room, the goblet landed with a clatter-- the wine within spattered and pooled in a grand old mess on the stone and carpeted floor. He could not afford to be choosy-- his throne-- his people and his land needed to be protected. 

“I have protected my people up until now. They stay out of the forest and few are taken. The people are superstitious-- if word gets out of the witch living after all this time, there will be hysteria.” He huffed, crossing his arms over his large barrel-shaped chest, his voice darkening as he continued. “They know that she escaped. But it is forbidden to speak of her. Don’t you know that names carry power among demons and fae? The youth know not of her at all. And I aim to keep it that way.”

“She used to serve under me as an apothecary. A surgeon. A midwife and a champion doctor. But then we went to war. She… lost her way. Gave herself to demons. Began tainting the citizens and my soldiers who came to her for healing. She was keeping a coven in the stead of a clinic. Training children in the dark arts. She sacrificed them so that she could escape. She is a vile creature-- and must never be mentioned outside of this room. You understand, foreigner?” 

“I am hiding nothing from you hunters who have responded to my call for aide. Now, will anyone else speak?”

\--

Jack couldn’t help the wolfish grin that appear on his face. There was part of him that wondered if this was a side effect of his condition. There was a time, where he was still human and he had his partner, that he would hold his tongue. He was the diplomat out of the two of them. He was good at holding conversation with nobles and hiding the lines of disgust that would often come up when speaking to them. A lot of nobles were not as bright Jack had learned early on in his career. It seems that with the years things hadn’t changed.

“That’s a good start at least,” Jack shrugged, not caring if any of the other knights or hunters gave him any strange looks. “Yes I have seen how some of your people act, it is no different from other places in the area. A bit pathetic if you ask me, but customs are customs even back where I came from. But my Lord” The name was spoken with a layer of venom to it. “You do realize that when, not if, she decides to come over and attack the town then your whole little bit of ‘protection’ will be nothing more than a farce. The forest protect their own, especially the one you have in your backyard. No matter how many knights and naive hunters you attract there would be no way to stop the entire power of the forest on your head.

‘Not to mention that one servant that is out there.’ Jack thought bitterly, instead the grin on his face died and turned into a scowl once he heard the story of the Witch. It felt familiar in a way, he had heard this story before. He was sure of it at least, the results of that trade off were on his skin after all. He couldn’t help the sarcastic and almost bitter sound in his voice. This ranged a lot farther than he originally thought. If he had known back then, then he would have declined the request to slay the Witch. Both him and his ex partner were bigger fools.

“Sacrificed them? Its sounds to me that you executed them out of your own fear. And you are a bigger fool that I first mistaken you for. From a logical standpoint if they were just children then they could have been easily been molded to fight for your cause. If they were truly infused with the power of demons then they could have made good soldiers. After all you give no fucks to them if they went against your beliefs so why not become the full tyrant card all the way, not half way. You were in a time of war were you not? Then answer me this Lord. If they were ‘tainted’ as you say, then did they collapsed a day or so later? Their souls gone and their bodies turning into dust and ash?” Jack raised an eyebrow and continued to look at the Lord.”Somehow I  doubt it.”

Jack would know, that was what happened when he ate the soul, living or recently fallen. Their bodies would decay and wither, turn to ash and dust. Of course the Lord didn’t need to know that. But it took all of Jack’s restraint, the last bit he had anyway, to not revert back and let his eyes show what he really was. “So do you know the dangers of the Forest? On how if the fae wished it they would keep you within an illusion, wandering for weeks, even months? Or what about the beast that slumber deep within? Or you just sit here, rotting away on your throne as many lives are lost with the promise of petty coin.”

\--

The Lord gave an indignant huff at the continued ramblings of the raucous hunter. He glared at the foreigner, even as one of his aides tapped at his arm to try and still him. A frantic whisper into his ear while he took a deep breath in-- lungs filling with air and making the large man seem even bigger than he was. This was not the time to argue over yays and nays. The Lord’s pause certainly earned some hushed whispers about the room, and he could feel his gut tightening underneath his ornamental armor. 

He was about to push forth, and explain himself-- justify the call he’d made to protect his people years prior. Until his knight commander waltzed in-- fashionably late. A good diversion, he was sure, one that certainly reassured the lord that he indeed was doing the right thing. Though, he continued to glare at the hunter-- something-- something seemed off. The way he carried himself, the fire burning in his eyes. His demeanor, his aura, so to speak.

He had seen it before. 

“I have fought my time in war, hunter.” He stepped back from his table, his aide certainly seeming against whatever he was planning. He walked from where he had been seated, down a set of stairs and through the crowding of tables-- graceful as any other noble. “...Against countrymen and faefolk alike.” A pause, gesturing at his scarred face as he got a closer look at the foreigner. “I lost my eye to them-- Against demons not unlike the one’s magic who cursed you.” He lifted his head high, and pointed forth-- confident in his gesture and at his conclusion. Had he been a younger lord, he might have acted-- lifting his affliction by an equal fate to the children he’d burned years prior. “Cursed like a blight, yet you fight... Commendable indeed.” 

He stared at the hunter for a moment longer, before nodding at his own confirmation. He was too tired-- to desperate to seek elsewhere. “What do you gain to kill the Witch? Was it she who left you this way?”

\--

Jack rested his chin on one of his arms, his eyes staring  at the Lord of the castle. Anyone else in this room were of no consequence. They were as useful as cattle for him to eat when their time came. This game of charades and contest of belief was always the reason that hunters got the short end of the stick. Lord and Ladies of nobility thought they knew best. Sometimes people turn away from the truth. Sometimes people are too hardheaded to give up and turn back. There were things as tactical retreat for a reason. But now Jack had no need for that. There was only one person who could kill him now. Anyone else and it would be like a mosquito bite. He was one part of a curse that was never meant for him. 

‘Gabe...’ His inner thought resonated. That was the only thing that really matter at this point. Anyone who was around him was going to die. Until he can clear the curse that plagued him, that crawled in his body, he would watch and be the angel of death for some. Absorbing their souls and resentments, their hatred of the living. Jack knew that he was losing his mind, the anger of the deceased would see to that.  Even if he became a mindless beast, he had a mission to complete and he wouldn’t stop until he saw it to the end. Once he did, he himself would cease to exist. The study of alchemy allowed to do so.

His thought was interrupted when one of the knights, the one who was late spoke up after his questioning. Jack stared back at the man, seem younger than him at least. He tilted his head in disinterest. “I'm sorry but who are you? I thought I was talking to the Lord of the Castle, not to his fleas. So unless you are the Lord you should see yourself out of this conversation. Unless you want to be put 6 feet under and I can tell you now punk you don’t want to go to war with me. You don't even hold a candle against me, not anymore.”

Jack stood up when the Lord did, he didn’t listen to any protests that the guards made nor whatever murmurs that the hunters made. His gaze was only meant for the Lord. He took lazy steps, allowing the Lord to get closer and closer at a faster pace. Jack meet the Lord, there was some distance between the two of them. He talked about grandiose battles against humans and the so called demon folk that they feared. Had Jack been the human that he once was, he would have agreed at the sense of justice that the man carried. But now, a fragment of his older self…. He could care less.

When the Lord accused him of being cursed, and questioning his actions… Jack laughed. He let out a loud laugh at the situation. There was no need to disguise himself in front of these people anymore. He placed his hand on the large hat and tossed it aside. His graying blond hair, an illusion from feeding, was bare for all to see. He then reached to his cloak and in a dramatic fashion he pulled on it to reveal his clothing underneath. A pair of red clothing, the mark of a demon on his jacket and red  pants. Black boots and gloves were next. 

On his face were two large scars on his face, his once blue eyes, the ones that he tried to keep an illusion to seem more human changed in a blink. They were crimson, bright as rubies. On his belt, left arm, and right leg there was vials of different colors. There was another one, a small blue one on his chest. “Guess there’s no point in keeping the charade anymore is there?”

There was a casual tone about that question, as if he was asking about the weather or how the crops were faring. His own bloodlust was barely kept within him and it seep out for just a second. His voice, however was loving almost fatherly. In contrast to the look of his eyes, cold.“Don’t give me that bullshit Lord, as if you’re any better than me. The way I’m looking at it, you’re just as big as a monster as the witch. Maybe even more so. Demons like me have to fight for their own needs. The way I see it, you’re in no position to question your guests that came all the way here to help you out for the sins that this town has created for itself. The past always comes back to haunt us Lord… I suggest you remember that if this plan of your fails but if you really want to know what she did to me...”

Jack crossed his arms and let out a smile, one that was warm as the sun though his red eyes were as cold as ice. A juxtaposition that he learned after he was cursed. “Offer one of these folks to me and I will show you what _ exactly  _ did she do to me.”

\--

Fio watched the spectacle unfold below from her vantage point high above the hall. She was lounging on one of the beams from which the chandelier was suspended, extending and retracting the blade on her gauntlet. 

Her eyes were drawn to the gasps of the crowd, raising an eyebrow amusedly. For a demon, this ‘Jack’ had quite a taste for showmanship. She didn’t fear him. She feared nothing. People in her line of work couldn’t survive if they did. 

Tired of waiting and watching, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, the black veil woven into it concealing her face. She swung her legs over the side of the beam and pushed herself off the edge, landing silently behind the demon. 

“That won’t be necessary.” Fio said, striding past the ashen-skinned man. The assassin crossed an arm over her chest and knelt before the Lord, bowing her head. “Milord, the Doctor has taken refuge in the old keep. His creations labor tirelessly. He has resumed his work.” 

Fio had served the Lord of Adlersbrunn for a time. The Nobility was rarely known to seek the services of assassins, but desperate times called for unlikely alliances. He knew this better than most. 

She was not a soldier, she was a hired blade. Her loyalty was bought and bound to a contract. Yesterday’s patron could become tomorrow’s target in an instant, but she was not a traitor. If she was hired, she’d see her job through to the end. Only then would she take on another. It wasn’t exactly honor, but it was more than most would offer.

\--

“Silence! That is enough!” The Lord bellowed, voice echoing throughout the commotion-filled hall and ordering it into the silence he commanded. “I will have no fighting in my hall, in my home!” He started, like an angry father calling out misbehaving children. “Hunter, I--” He started again a distant warhorn blowing in the distance-- the alarm from the wall; before the room felt heavy-- the torches dimmed and died, and within seconds, they were thrown into darkness. 

“What is the meaning of--!” He called out angrily, before a smooth voice echoed throughout the chamber. One that the Lord recognised, and his face paled. His prediction had certainly come true.

“ **_I see that I seem to have interrupted your little tea party, milord._ ** ” The voice came from nowhere, yet everywhere-- echoing off the walls like a ghost. Her voice sounded of velvet, sweet like candy, yet dripping with venom and animosity. 

The Lord fell silent, taking a deep breath. With a puff of smoke and a green flame, a visage appeared above their heads-- transparent and untouchable. A show-- parlor magic to show her power, perhaps. It was the outline of the witch herself-- mounted atop her broom, her eyes glowing that magical, swirling violet hue. An opposite aesthetic of the angels painted on the arched stone ceiling above them in the banquet hall. Instead of peace, only fear and hesitation hung over the room.

” **_I see you’ve gathered yourself an army of… sellswords? My, my, you certainly have stooped low_ ** .” She scanned about the room, spying the cursed Soldier. ” **_Even accepting the help of those touched by the demons you burned my people for? Tsk, tsk._ ** ”

“Why do you show your face here!?” The Lord called out, his voice booming with his own rage, ignoring her taunts. 

” **_I came to tell you and your people that you stand no chance._ ** ” A pause, as she looked down at them all-- almost as though she were a loving mother gazing at a nursery full of children. ” **_My army dwarfs yours. Dr. Junkenstein’s dwarfs yours. Your sellswords may leave and be spared…_ ** ” Another pause, the ghostly visage descending across the room to hover in front of the Lord-- who stood unmoving. ” **_But you, milord, will die in three days’ time. I will come for your army, your people, and finally, you._ ** ” 

The Lord stood silently for a moment, standing tall over the little woman’s shape as it hovered inches from him. She seemed so small from what he remembered. “Do you think I fear you, Witch?”

” **_No. But you should. Is it not fear that determines who is human or not?_ ** ” A little light laughter, and a ghostly finger caressed at his cheek almost fondly. ” **_Perhaps that is why I intend to savor killing you. You were so brave, once._ ** ” 

The Lord could feel her ghostly touch on the skin of his face-- aged and scarred as it was. “You doubt the resolve to survive that mankind has, demon.”

” **_Oh, it isn’t a resolve-- it’s a stubbornness. A foolishness. Don’t lecture me on the will to survive after what you have done to me, old man._ ** ” She hissed, pulling away. " **_You may call your foolishness what you wish, your grace. I look forward to the petty army you throw at me._ ** " 

\--

Moira could sense her presence, the spike in magic in the castle pulling the Sorceress from her lofty perch above the castle. She had long sensed the Witch’s presence but didn’t think much of it until she could hear some sort of uproar from the King’s court. Grimoire set down and scrying pool concentration broken, the Good Witch’s presence was needed, she knew it.

\--

The Lord inhaled to try and speak again, but the witch only vanished with a round of smooth, bird-like laughter, leaving the castle be. 

\--

A flurry of robes and skirts rushed down the spiraling staircase, meeting the main event just as the blasted Witch disappeared, “Nách mór an diabhal thú [Aren’t you the devil]!” She spat out as the Witch vanished from the court. 

\--

The torches relit, and left the room in a stunned silence-- the Lord still feeling that ghostly finger on his cheek.

“My Lord,” The Sorceress quickly turned to the King, “I can track her. Just prepare for something more. She never just strikes once, we know this.” With the words of advice, she pulled her hood over her head and rushed out of the throne room and into the courtyard. 

The Lord was wound up and tense when the sorceress had appeared-- nearly jumping as she seemingly materialized at his side. He barely had enough time to look at her before she had disappeared-- the woman always having made quick work of anything arcane related. Out of everyone, she was the only one he trusted to go alone-- and so he let the Sorceress go as he turned to the rest of the room. 

“This… This is what you face.” He spoke solemnly, then-- the eyes of the hunters and the sellswords digging holes into the Lord’s skin. 

He lifted his hand, calling out to his guards. "Go! Clean up the mess that she undoubtedly made."


	3. Chapter Three. A Fight Between Witches.

Chapter Three. A Fight Between Witches.

The Witch and her pets soon dispersed upon re-entering the sanctity of the forest-- crickets chirped, frogs sang their nightly song. Her attention had been caught by a wanderer, another presence in the woods as the wolves dragged their kills back to their dens. Even the fae began their feast on the bodies just past the crossroads-- dragging their corpses back into the treeline. She broke away from her pets, letting them feed and celebrate a successful hunt together. 

She followed the Sorceress’ aura, like a moth drawn to a flame. Curious, yet territorial, her magic prickling in her fingers as she returned to her domain. She brought her hands up to her mouth, calling out to the sorceress not unlike the way she had done to her. 

“ _ Do you wish a death so swift that you ventured here alone? _ ” Her voice echoed inside the woman’s mind. 

\--

The forest was dark, twisting. A magic that had been long unused or even forgotten hung in the air. Something had awoken it and she could only blame the Witch. She quietly moved through the underbrush, letting herself occasionally melt into the shadows, moving swiftly and silently. The Sorceress knew better than to bother what slept among the tree. But there was an evil presence that she could nearly not put her finger on. 

Though fear didn’t fill the Good Witch’s heart, she knew what she faced and some would say she had prepared for the day again. Never having had the chance before to face the Witch, Moira had been able to perfect her skills. No more miscasting or messed up spells. She knew her skills and where they lay. Now she hunted for the friend from a life long ago. But they had followed different paths.

The wind picked up and Moira was quick to fall out of her shadow step, whipping around and pulling her hood off. “You are a brave one, Witch.” Moira finally spoke up, her voice echoing against the wood of the forest. She didn’t dare speak the Witch’s true name, despite the Sorceress knowing it. “I do not expect the death to be mine, not tonight.” There was an air of confidence in her voice, a steely look in her eyes as she paused for a moment in the forest to see where the Witch of the Wilds was.

\--

"Bravery is only a term for those who feel fear, is it not?" She asked, finally appearing high in the trees above  the sorceress. Her tone lacked it's venom that she had spat at the lord-- replaced with something of mirth, of curiosity. "I am not brave. I feel no fear to overcome. I do not fear death, nor failure." Her form was transparent, a glimmer across her silhouette that was just barely visible in the moonlight through the trees. 

"Bravery would be the term to give to you, instead. You trespass into my domain to kill me? A servant of the Lord?" She asked, descending from where she'd hovered above her. Her magically glowing eyes were clearly visible-- filled with jest as she smiled down at the sorceress. 

At that, the weather stilled-- as though the forest itself held it's breath as the two powerful magic users's auras crackled off one another. A hand raised, and her eyes narrowed as a little blue-green flickering flame sparked to life between her fingers, illuminating the side of her face-- her cheeks almost looking haunted and gaunt in the light. A sweep of her arm, and the flame dropped like a glob of water-- illuminating the area at their feet. Like an oil spill, the ground was set ablaze-- yet the fire didn't burn. Fire of the fae. 

A roll of her body, and she fell from her broom-- landing on her feet with a twirl. "I can feel your magic, sorceress. There is something you hide from the Lord, no?" A smile on her features, illuminated from below them. "He must be more desperate than I thought."

\--

"And those who live without fear are usually foolhardy." The Sorceress said coolly as she watched the Witch descend from above. The wasn’t malice in the Witch’s words, which truly shocked the Sorceress. Could that be hints of memories long sold away starting to peek out? Moira didn’t get her hopes up, knowing Angela--no,  _ the Witch _ was long lost.

But she did not flinch as the forest magically set ablaze around her. Instead, she looked ahead as her old friend finally landed on the ground in front of her “You certainly have changed, and not for the better. What have you become? A monster?” Moira said as she squared her shoulders slightly, not taking the hits about her magic from the Witch.

Her own magic danced on her fingertips, lightning crackling between each finger. But she waited, wanting the Witch to make the first real move. “The Lord knows what he needs to know. Mortals mustn’t be bothered with our kind, in fact they need to be protected from us.” she replied curtly, the lightning growing stronger by the second. No, she couldn’t wait or hesitate. Not if she wanted to save the town. With a gentle raise of her hand, the lightning was released, aiming the bulk of the spell at the Witch.

\--

The Witch paused at the Sorceress’ question-- spying the Lighting dancing on the lithe fingertips of the other. Flickers of memories danced in the void in her mind-- little wisps of light in the dark that had consumed her.  _ A moment of work, a lift of her hand to wave at someone-- friendly. A colleague? A fellow healer in time of strife? Their face blurred. Some sort of conversation, words or their intention lost. _

Had her previous, weak life known this woman? 

Blue eyes opened wide just for a moment-- lost in her own, fleeting, shredded memories. She didn’t react to the lightning that arced toward her, until the demonic pull at her limbs snapped her attention back to the now. 

A hand raised, a red sheen appearing in front of her just a moment too late. Magic electricity sunk deep through the Witch’s arm-- dancing brightly from her fingertips up to her shoulder. It was as though her arm were suddenly made of metal-- glowing with the heat. She did not flinch-- save for her other hand slapping at the afflicted arm’s shoulder-- stopping the current with a grunt. Only the smell of burning flesh permeated the air as her gaze lifted to the Sorceress-- the hesitant compassion gone. Evaporated like a tea long forgotten and replaced by a murderous, seething hatred that made the little woman almost appear bigger-- if one felt her presence, alone. 

The skin visible from under the tatters of her clothing appeared charred. It smoldered like a burned corpse-- though she didn’t show outward indications of pain.

“You fight for the mortals that hunt our kind? They rip our people apart, burn them alive, and you think they need to be _ protected? _ Had they no fear for their lives they would have killed you long ago. You are a fool for fighting for those  _ parasites! _ ” She screeched-- almost a command. Anger roiling in her like a storm tossed sea. Her voice wasn’t entirely hers-- perhaps fueled by the various entities she’d sold herself to. Whoever she had been, she could not remember. Whoever she had befriended, she could not remember. Whatever there had been, she could not remember. 

And thus, it didn’t matter. 

Her tone darkened-- as if another voice was just barely there-- settling in above hers. “ **_If you want to fight for them, you can suffer, just like they will._ ** ” 

She stood tall, the injured right arm charred and uselessly hanging at her side. Instead she raised her left, fingers splayed. An angrily whispered incantation, and a burst of energy wrought forth toward the Sorceress, sounding not unlike a gunshot-- sickly and festering like a gaping, gangrenous wound. As the wave ripped over the ground, the grasses and little forest plants withered and died-- as if the life was simply leeched from them in less than an instant.

\--

Moira knew Angela was still in there somewhere. It made the fight all the more hard as she watched and hurt the woman that used to be her friend. But as the wave of energy finally hit her, she stumbled back, feeling the draining effect of the magic on her. She gasped for breath for a second, barely able to hold herself up on the ground as she could feel the life leaving her. But no, that wouldn’t be enough to kill her. Moira stood once again, facing the Witch but the pain in her eyes was evident. “You were one of them!  _ You loved them! _ ” Moira raised her voice in response to the other woman, magic echoing in her own voice. Seeing the Witch’s reaction only lead to her believing that her friend might truly be gone. 

“You’re a monster, they fight you because they’re  _ afraid! _ ” Moira’s hands flew up in front of her, almost seeming to be a protective stance before the spell happened. A whisper of words and suddenly a burst of color came from Moira’s hands. The twisting, rolling colors roared through the air, the light reflecting onto the trees and looking like they would stain whatever they touched but the magic only had one target. But the spell was one that ended nearly as quickly as it started, the colorful lights stopped only as the damage reached the Witch. “You deserved better. I can’t fault you for that.” There was an almost defeated tone in Moira’s voice, like she couldn’t bring herself to do the magic that she  _ hoped--  _ she  _ knew _ would take care of the problem once and for all. “You don’t  have to do this…”

\--

The Witch raised her arm as that light arced toward her, her own counter-spell sizzling in her palm. The sorceress’ emotion-filled words only caused more of a distraction of her own thoughts. More flashes of memories, too deeply embedded in her mind to have been easily ripped out by a demon’s maw and claw. They were memories buried in her still-human heart. She saw a face this time-- one surely matching that of the sorceress’ in front of her. Like recalling a word you could not think of all day, a moment of _eureka._ A face. A name. It was only a moment of hesitation, but enough for her shield to fizzle, and that magic to arc up into her arm, the bright, vivid colors dancing from her fingertips to her elbow, and then up her bicep and latching into her shoulder, and arcing down her torso. She stumbled back, letting out a hiss not unlike a cornered cat. The hesitation wavered, the voice growing darker, more layered. 

“ **They** **_killed_ us! They _burned_ my people! _Innocent people_! I may have loved them, but how quick they are to turn their love into hatred. _Into fear!_** _They deserve to be just as frightened as my people were!_ ” Her chest heaved, her hands curling into fists and taking a moment to heal-- her arms glowing a bright gold. A sign of her old magic. The magic that had set her upon this demonic, necrotic path. Her face changed-- anger changing into one of almost peace. As if she was no longer the murderous, war-torn victim clinging desperately to survival. Her voice shifted, darkening as though someone else spoke through the Witch’s mouth.

“ **_If you defend them, you are letting yourself be weak. You raise your sword for maggots_ ** ,  **_Moira!_ ** ” Her voice cracked at the mention of the name; the entity’s deeper tone lifting just for a moment, as though she  _ remembered _ something. But she didn’t skip a beat; the Witch’s arms came out, the faerie fire dancing at their feet dissipating into the darkness, like a candle snuffed with a breath. The form that the entity had overtaken charged forward, a new energy making the Witch’s force feel different; eyes like a murderous grey fire in the darkness. 

Gloved fingers gripped at the woman’s clothing, and then finally at her flesh. Whatever break in concentration there was, whatever struggle to front her own face, the long-lost cleric was beaten down by her own demons, for now. “ **_If you fight for them, you should die like them._ ** ” A pause-- another moment of hesitation. “ **_But these little memories that she holds onto so tightly… Intrigue me. She hesitates. Perhaps I will show her a kindness, this time._ ** ” A little nod, and the entity that had overtaken her smiled--a sick, evil smile. It was clear that the Witch had decided on her  _ own _ plan. Her hands grew cold, and she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the sorceress’ forehead-- sealing the curse within her flesh.

Her hands tightened like a vice grip around Moira’s lithe arms, and like a necrotic black hole, her fingers began to leech the life from the sorceress’ body. 

“ **_And so even now, she weeps for you. She begs for your life. How weak and fragile those little mortals are. Pleading, pitiful. So very easily tricked._ ** ”

The entity let its curse wreak through the woman’s body, the curse of undeath, as it pulled away. A banshee, at best, withering until she would be a husk, and only rectified by another holy spellcaster. Provided they didn’t fear her enough to simply  _ run _ . 

” **_Let us see how well you fare without them, now. And how well they fare without you. I have a war to fight._ ** ” At that, she called for her broom, mounting it with a graceful twist of her body. And like a Cheshire cat, she faded into the dark.


	4. Chapter Four: The Summoner and her Servant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing a sort-of-OC-- Concept Mercy! [ https://66.media.tumblr.com/5b21a922609840b84b5b259cf7f7940f/tumblr_oxvemzN2XW1taarzno3_r3_400.png ]

Markus Schröder had been a good man. He stood nearly at two meters, his skin dark and smooth. He had been brave, strong, _skilled_ \-- fought in the battlefield with the Lord and his men to fight for their home in the valley of Schwarzwald-Baar-Kreis. He had served as a faithful clergyman, a champion doctor, and up until the end, an Apothecary and Healer. He was a man of renown-- he’d even owned a home-- within the city walls, no less. Almost a noble of his own right, at that point-- after having crawled up from  _ nothing.  _ An orphan, wandered for years, until he had found Angela Ziegler. She had taken him under her figurative wing. The rest had been history. He had opted to leave-- more like managed to escape-- as the clinic had been ransacked and overrun as their little world came crumbling down. Soldiers poured into the place, ripping doctors and their assistants from their work. They were ripped from their studies, from their patients. The youngest of the children under the care of them all was four. She had just learned how to read-- more of a leech-collector and botanist-in-training, at that point, however. Markus knew why they were there, however. He had watched it all come crumbling down over the course of several weeks. 

Angela had lost her way. She had sold herself to demons. The woman who had stepped in like a protective eldest sister over their little family was now spiralling out of control in her desperate need to _ heal.  _ She grieved when a patient didn’t pull through, as they all did. But Angela had grieved  _ more.  _ As though she found herself at fault-- as if she were a  _ failure _ of a doctor. 

Some people simply weren’t strong enough for the world. 

But Angela had internalized it. She delved down the path of witchcraft and necromancy. And Markus had done  _ nothing _ . 

Granted, in a matter of weeks, her ability to save lives had increased tenfold. Babes no longer died out of the womb. Women no longer died in childbirth. Soldiers no longer suffered infection. Fevers were wiped clean with the wave of a hand. Even the plagues seemed not to affect her touch. The welts and cough were wiped like dust from a patient’s body. She must have made herself too much into a target. The Lord now wanted her dead. He would have been a fool not to have heard the guardsmen talk.

And so in the chaos, he had stolen away into her quarters while she desperately tried to protect the children of the clinic from their own eventual fates. Markus had been a doctor. He had been her brother. But he wasn’t going to _ die _ for the mistakes of another. Not even the mistakes of his sister-- or even the Lord for their fates. 

He’d filled his rucksack with books. Anything that looked to be a spellbook. A journal. Stones, candles. Anything else that looked important enough to her work-- And then he’d broken out a window to escape into the night. 

By the time he’d managed to escape the city, the denizens of the clinic burned, and Angela-- the Witch-- promised her return with tears and venom burning her eyes and the screams of the good men, women, and children of the clinic were burned alive. He could do nothing. And he  _ did _ nothing. 

Markus had watched, helpless, cloak drawn over his face and cowardly retreating through the crowd, fleeing the city and disappearing into the trees. He mourned, lost and confused, falling into a deep, unforgiving anguish. He traveled for days, making distance from Adlersbrunn and finding a rather quiet little valley in the Alpine foothills. He did not eat, he did not rest, he did not stop until he realized… that the forest here was quiet. It was here that he came to rest, taking up occupation in a run-down, abandoned hunter’s lodge in the forest. It was here that he pulled out the books-- two journals filled with his ‘sister’s’ writings. A tome of spells, and a tome of lore. He opted to read and get to the bottom of what had transpired. 

He read about strange, foreign realms, the various rules of witchcraft. Documentation of the fae in the wilds, illustrations of them in their habitats. Her journals were frantic, her usually neat script frazzled and quick. As though she were trying to keep up.

How had Angela lost her way?

She had wrote like she was being told what to write. By what, he didn’t know. But as the days passed and he studied vigorously, he began to understand. A history of Alchemy, of the ancient art of transforming things into other things. But why? Tendrils of knowledge collected from Ancient Egypt, Arabia, and script from the East that he couldn’t read. How had Angela learned of these things? One afternoon, perhaps two months into his frantic studies, he mimicked the scribbled instructions in the final entry of her last journal. He cross-referenced the tome of lore, and the woman’s spellbook she’d been writing. A transmutation spell-- one to bind a spirit or some other being to one’s bidding. He couldn’t read the name of it, Angela had written so fast.

He followed the directions-- following the instructional steps to the letter. An intricate ancient circle written painstakingly in an equally ancient Arabian script-- Markus hoped that he could coax answers out of whatever he summoned. He had to know. The future of the Forest in its entirety depended on it.

And so he placed candles at the vertices of the circle, and knelt at the front of it all. Calloused hands placed in the proper places, he read from his sister’s tome-- reciting the words passed to her from somewhere. And then he waited-- watching the circle and hoping that it had all not been for naught.

\--

The circle glowed brightly as something seemed to start to  _ materialize _ in the middle. He had done it correctly, at least as far as he could tell. The creature appearing, though, wasn’t something normally summoned. The dragonkind were rarely called from their perch, their kingdoms, especially so by humans. So when they were called up, it was a near fight for who got to answer it. Claws and talons scraping for the portal. Satya was chosen because she had never been to the human’s plane before and was a choice candidate for being sent there now. Her magic? Pristine. Her understanding of the near art of said magic?  Even more perfect, if that was possible. She could still hear the words being recited as she started to appear in the center of the circle. A flash of gold, and fire, and brimstone-- the stone room singed with heat. Her kind was usually summoned over bigger things. Usually kings trying to procure wealth or get revenge. But no, this summoning felt different. It was small. Haphazard. Personal. And part of her didn’t trust it. 

She was a poised, proud creature, with breath that steamed in the cool air, her chest ablaze with the same heat and gold-burning light that she had arrived on. Her long legs ending in cloven, metallic hooves. Wings at her hips, wrapped about her waist as she looked curiously around. Her form almost looked cambian, demonic and draconic. Alluring, yet poised and refined. This was no castle, no warring lord. This was no political intrigue. Just who  _ was _ this vagabond? Could she have been the unlucky one to be summoned at the hand of a  _ prank?  _

As she looked at the frazzled, wide-eyed man in front of her and she looked around at the summoning circle, her lips pursed and she rested her hand under her chin as she seemed to form opinions about the man before she spoke up. “You don’t seem like a spellcaster.” She said simply, raising a ridged eyebrow to the mortal man. “What makes you call upon me?” The question was simple but could be dangerous. The wrong reason or he didn’t appeal to the dragon-woman could lead to consequences. But something seemed open about her, like she would be willing to hear him out. “Hurry now…” She was summoned but not bound, her time was limited.

\--

Markus looked up at the entity he’d summoned-- brown eyes wide and filled with wonder at the woman, no…  _ creature _ that stood before him. He knelt on the ground, his clothing haggard from his travels and it sure as hell didn’t look of a castle or keep of a warring lord or king. It spoke to him, no, _she_ spoke to him. And he couldn’t help but bow his head in respect. The naiive part of him wanted to formally introduce himself-- but he knew that she would not care.

She asked why he had summoned her. Why was she there? Why was he  _wasting her time?_  

No. That couldn’t be right. She _had_ to know-- she was the last resort on his understanding what had gone wrong with Angela. What had happened. What had triggered the collapse of his sister, what had caused their clinic to be tried as a coven of all things. But in that moment, he began to understand what had happened. Her writings began to make sense, her old tongued-gibberish now began to come together. She had lost herself entirely-- she had traded her memories. She no longer was the older sister he knew.

He was humbled, a mere mortal in the presence of something from a different plane, by all rights a  _ deity,  _ using a magic that he barely understood. His hands shook, and he looked to his dirty palms. This indeed was  _ real.  _

“My… My sister.” He started, shaking his head. “She... went mad. Wrote things in ancient tongues and--” He kept his head low. He had to start from the beginning. She had to understand.

“We were doctors. She sold herself to things she didn’t understand. Demons, or the Earth, or… Something else. I want to save her-- she wouldn’t let us  _ die _ !” He sounded like a desperate man, exhausted. His cheeks jutted in jaundice, his wide, broad features sunken from lack of rest nor care. “She wrote of how to summon something in her last journal. I thought I could help. I just want-- I beg of you, please, help me. She must be freed from the deals she was tricked into...”

He had once been a proud man-- one that held his head high. Shoulders broad and strong, in a uniform fit for as brave a soldier as any other. Fitted in chainmail and halberk. But now he was humbled, his clothes torn from his long journey, as though she could kill him with a mere thought. He bowed in respect, in reverence, his gut twisted in fear.

“... _ Or she must be destroyed. _ ” At that, he looked up to her, like the old paintings of a suffering Christ looking to the Lord in the cathedrals that dotted the countryside. Wide eyed, filled with wonder that conveyed only honesty, compassion and above all,  _ pain. _ "I will do anything you wish."

\--

As he spoke, she approached, looming over him as he explained the situation. She stooped down, irritation in her face. She snatched out one of his hands, gripping him by the wrist with a burning touch. He hissed at the feeling of it, his body tightening at the pain as she pressed her hand flat against his palm, fingers splayed out together. 

“ _ Hold still. _ ” She demanded, her fiery, leathery wings coming unfurled from her hips as they extended out around and above them-- a shield, holding the clueless man’s attention.

And the temperature of his hand increased-- a brand to his calloused flesh as she spoke in her draconic tongue. It was enough of a deal, she supposed. He would do whatever she wished-- if she assisted in locating his ‘sister,’ and rectifying the problem at hand, or assisting in destroying her. It was a deal enough to be bound. And so she bound him-- and her to him. 

If she died, so did he. If he died, so did she. Mortals were fickle, little things. They died so easily, so fragile, like glass.    
Her voice was more or less a hiss. “Start again. From the beginning. And tell me  _ everything.”  _


End file.
